by S. J. Higbee
“Course not. But he’s a farmer. Land is in his blood. It’d be like… like someone waving a merchanter ship fully equipped and good to go under my nose, for instance.”
“You wouldn’t want to go back to that life, would you?”
“Oh, in a heartbeat. ʼCept with my rep, some cred-hugging assassin would be boarding us and holding my crew and merchandise hostage in no time flat. So it isn’t a possibility. I would if I could, though. It’s in my blood – what I was brought up to. And… I’m not saying they didn’t go about it in a truly shoddy way, but they’d simply not reckon you could want anything better than to be a farmer.”
Wynn nodded. “S’pose that makes it feel less like such a manky piece of fiddle-fingered dealing.”
“Though it goes to show that sodding mudfeet have all the imagination of a rock,” I added, reluctant to let Hilder and her putrid father off air-free.
Wynn threw his head back and laughed. Which abruptly stopped as his eyes fell onto my fingers, busy twining the folds of my robe into a tangled mess. “Your hands.”
I looked down at them properly for the first time since we’d started talking. The blisters were gone.
Wynn snatched up the PainEase spray, his expression hard. “Is it this? You told me not to put so much on. Have you lot been sitting on a proper healing spray, keeping it tight for some kinda shoddy advantage?”
“Don’t be a crip-wit!” I held my hands up, staring at them and trying to recall exactly when the discomfort faded. “We’re mercs. Such an invention would bring in a river of creds, so we’d sell it in a heartbeat. That stuff’s just PainEase…” I made a fist, squeezing as tightly as I could and there wasn’t so much as a twinge. “They were swollen and if I picked anything up, felt like I was gripping a shockstick.” I was still staring down at them.
“Shocksticks, eh? You lot still using them on helpless civvies, then?”
“No…” They were still hurting when I tried fiddling with the robe. So I let it alone – until I got… And then I pressed them against the material, trying to keep them still. Ease the throbbing. Ease the pain that was starting to come back…
Wynn leaned forward and took one of my hands and gently pressed the palm. “Does that hurt?”
I shook my head, wishing that his touch didn’t make me feel so… “The robe!” I pulled the folds out with my free hand. “We were talking and my hands were starting to hurt, again, so I pushed them into the material.” I stared down. “There should be smears of pus and blood on this.” I looked back up at him as he dropped my hand. “You changed your robe, yet?”
“Nah. I check it before putting it on. It doesn’t stink, so…”
“Me either. And yet, there should be spots of blood on it. I was also wearing it when practising the staff drills, and by the time I finished it was damp with sweat.” More like dripping, though I’m not admitting to that… “I flung it in the corner of the room, and when I came to put it in the washer, it wouldn’t accept it, cos it registered as clean. So I put it back on.”
“These gowns react to our emotions, self-clean themselves and can heal. Pulped planets – how’d Gaiasts get hold of tech like this?”
It was my fault that I failed to address Wynn’s question. Completely. But I was struggling not to buckle under the weight of memories that ambushed me every time he grinned, used that tone of voice or tilted his head in that particular way. And like so many of my major mistakes, it was one I was to bitterly regret.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If only we were able to open the hatch and immediately leave a ship after docking, the way they did on those oldtime vid shows Sarge was so fond of watching! Time crawled by with the pace of a dozing snail when waiting around to disembark from Pugnacious. Chiefly because I was now wearing full Gaiast headgear.
Made of the same material as the robe, it completely covered the head, with a flat top and a fine mesh panel across my face. It attached to the robe with a series of ties along an under-collar, covered by a top layer of fine pleats that draped over my shoulders and trailed down my back in a wisping train that merged in with the flowing skirts. What had me fed up was that once I put the veil on, my augs wouldn’t work. No sigs, heads-up or datanet feeds – nothing.
As we sat in the wardroom, waiting to be allowed onto Hawking, with Wynn and me dressed as a pair of Gaiast priests accompanied by their security team, the team leader was busy having a major meltdown.
“What d’you mean you can’t get any kind’ve readout on your augs?” demanded Sarge. “They were working fine this morning.”
“This veil seems to block the sig, though.” I wriggled my toes. Despite going barefoot for most of the voyage, my feet still hadn’t acclimatised, although Wynn and I were interested to note we didn’t suffer with cuts, splinters or blisters. We’d also agreed not to share our findings about the weird properties of the robes with the rest of the team. Committed as we were to the roles of Gaiast priests, I saw no point in further worrying our security team, while Wynn was more than happy to go along with any plan that cut them out of the info-loop.
“You’re not receiving anything I’m sending on the P’s command-band?” persisted Sarge.
“Nope.” I wished he’d move on and just accept the situation.
Chris muttered a string of curse words under his breath.
I shrugged. “We’ll have to resort to line of sight protocols.”
“There’s only three of us! We need double that number and more to provide full cover,” protested Eileen.
“Only if we insist on wandering off alone. It’s Hawking. I won’t be remotely tempted to wander anywhere.” I’ve seen enough of Hawking to last a couple of lifetimes. “When Sarge takes Wynn for a search for those sculpting tools, I’ll stay in our suite.” I hoped my reminder to Sarge of his promise of equipping Wynn was suitably tactful.
“There won’t be all that much time,” said Chris. “The liner from Earth is arriving two days early.”
“They’re due to leave on Friday, why’d they pitch up sooner than expected?” It doesn’t make sense.
“Hm. There was a near riot when the Earth liner last departed. There’s a bunch of folks desperate to grab a ride to Homespace while the offer’s still there…” Eileen’s unfocused stare told me she was accessing the infoweb and I realised that being cut off from all data flow was going to annoy me to Hell and back.
“Can’t see the point, myself,” muttered Chris.
“You’re not the slightest bit interested to see where your forefathers came from?” asked Wynn, which was something of a surprise. I hadn’t tagged him for an Earth-lover.
“Way my grandad told it, Earth was a wartorn hellhole running short of water and food,” replied Chris. “Reckoned the best thing his da ever did was leave, and he swore till his dying day he’d rather be spaced than go back—”
My team froze for a long minute, evidently listening to some message, while I resisted the temptation to rip off this veil.
“Move out,” ordered Sarge, standing up.
Wynn and I lined up behind him, with Chris on Wynn’s other side and Eileen bringing up the rear. Sarge had initially wanted me in the centre, but when I pointed out that Wynn would be useless in any hand-to-hand fighting and didn’t know enough to even get out of my way, Sarge agreed I should be on the outside.
Despite being swathed from head to toe, I felt naked, but Gaiast priestesses didn’t go in for any weaponry other than their staffs. Apparently. So it wasn’t an option, given that we’d be scanned so thoroughly, they’d know what we had for brekkie a week ago. Hawking personnel were understandably twitchy about security, these days.
We strode down the gangtube, the docks crammed with deckhands moving cargo, much of it aid incoming from all over Humanspace, judging from the garish stickers plastering the stacked boxes. While red-overalled maintenance grunts were clustered in cordoned swarms repairing the damage, evidently making impressive progress. Last time we’d crossed this deck it ha
d been a trashed mess. Now, there was a buzzing energy about the place I couldn’t recall seeing before. Not that there was much time to take in the scenery.
“Double-time,” commanded Sarge. “Pick up the pace.”
With no shoes on, I needed to pay attention to the flooring, as almost as gritty as a dirtsider port, which was when I became aware that Wynn was limping. “You stepped on something?”
“Nah. It’s the leg. Doesn’t do speed all that well.”
“Belay that. Back to granny-mode,” snapped Sarge, clearly irritated.
He wasn’t the only one. Why didn’t you say this was a problem when we could’ve fixed it with the topnotch medsuite on board Pugnacious? The words were all set to fall out’ve my mouth, when I realised that he had mentioned his cripped leg – several times. It was my assumption that it had been fixed up and although I’d seen him limp from time to time, I had thought he’d hurt his foot, or had cramp. Living amongst the P’s for the past five years, it simply hadn’t occurred to me that he’d still be coping with an ongoing injury like a regrowth glitch that was relatively easy to fix. And when he’d talked about the shoddy situation on Ceres between him and Hilder’s father, I’d assumed part of the debt was the medi-expenses of fixing the leg to the extent that he wasn’t partly crippled by it.
I’d figured that once we’d moved from the docks through onto the main concourse on Trader Level, it would be less crowded. I was wrong. The place was heaving. It didn’t help when a phalanx of security guards started sweeping through the main walkway to the dock clearing the area, cramming everyone to the sides. No way were we going anywhere.
“Why the holdup?” I gripped my staff. hoping the woman jostling me on my right didn’t step on my bare foot.
“Convict embarkation,” snapped Sarge.
Which we might’ve avoided if Blondie moved faster than a dozing snail.
I took a breath, as the woman bumped into me. Again. She does that once more, I’ll—
“Hey!” she jerked backwards, away from me, rubbing her arm and glaring. “You cut that out, you prodding freak!” However, she didn’t crowd me again. And whatever it was my robes did, I realised that I’d have to control my feelings towards other people, as well as keep calm.
I was aware of Eileen right at my shoulder, ready to step in, when I first heard the slap-shuffle of their feet and deeper thud of the guards’ boots. The crowd around us stilled, staring at the sorry procession. These were some of the vermin who’d taken advantage of the chaos on Hawking to steal, cheat or loot from the shattered survivors. The hard-core perpetrators responsible for the Atrocity were long gone and these miserable articles were headed for hard labour on whatever colony needed mines dug, roads cut through mountains, fields cleared. Or any other dirty, dangerous chore the colonists decided to pass onto convicted felons, in exchange for keeping them fed, clothed and housed.
They stumbled along, shackled in pairs. Their faces were hollowed with shock and some were weeping. Yeah, you didn’t reckon you’d get caught, did you?
“Flaming Mercury, some’em are little more than children,” Wynn muttered.
“Old enough to make a desperate situation worse.” I wasn’t wasting any pity on this flotsam.
“I didn’t do it… I didn’t do it… Please! You gotta believe me!” The girl was pulling her partner off balance as she slumped to her knees.
A guard hauled her upright. “Get up!”
“Please!” she called, her voice carrying over the general hum of activity, looking for help from the crowd.
I tensed, wondering if we’d find ourselves caught in a riot. Though while there were a few, like Wynn, muttering shocked complaints, most were grim-faced and silent. As the convict procession tramped past, I realised they were headed towards Pugnacious. I swallowed. I’d known the P’s had got the contract for transporting prisoners around Sector Two, of course I did. Seeing it being carried out felt a whole lot different, though.
As soon as they were past, Sarge barged through the crush, steering our party to the space created by the convicts’ guards so we reached the disembarkation zone without any further incident. From there, primitive printed signs showed the way to go and when we arrived at the Philbycorp Liners booth, there was a separate area for Prime Class passengers. Without missing a beat, Sarge jinked sideways, leading us away from clumps of passengers cluttering up the area with their luggage, and into the restricted area.
While I wriggled my toes into the thick carpet covering the floor, appreciating the comfort, Sarge marched up to the desk with our tickets and idents.
The immaculately groomed, uniformed woman behind the counter gestured for us to approach. “I’m really sorry to ask this…” Her smile didn’t reach her anxious eyes, as she gabbled in a very proper version of Shinese, “But we’re not allowing any exceptions right now, due to the current security situation. Please, we’d appreciate it if you could provide us with a spit-stick and a hair. If you can manage that, we won’t need a blood sample.”
“Of course,” I murmured, taking a stick and providing a sample through the mouth flap and reaching beneath my veil for a strand of hair, while Wynn was fiddling with his headgear beside me. While I doubted the passenger-liner employees were aware of exactly what Gaiast robes did, any kind of unusual activity while passengers were waiting for the results for their DNA tests was sure to be logged, so I concentrated very hard on calming thoughts while Jessica kept my robes still.
Wynn had assured me that during his time on Ceres, he’d avoided being DNA screened. My DNA had been in the datafiles on Restormel, which Peter and Axil had undertaken to destroy. In the meantime, the P’s best forger had travelled on Pugnacious with us to ensure that our new idents would pass muster anywhere. So we stood, unmoving and silent, as Gaiasts did when confronted with adminites and authority figures, allowing our team to sort it. Well I did. Wynn was shifting, clearly uncomfortable.
Meantime, one by one, Chris, Sarge and Eileen volunteered their samples.
“You’re mercenaries, from that peacemaking outfit!” yelped the receptionist, her glo-lashed eyes all but bulging, as she switched to English.
“Ex-mercenaries,” corrected Sarge. “When our leader stepped down, we decided to move on. Then ran into this pair.” He jerked his thumb in our direction. “Who needed guards. So we took the contract to see them safely to Earth.”
One by one, the phials with our DNA glowed all-clear green. And the receptionist rewarded us with her first genuine smile since we’d approached her counter. “Philbycorp welcomes you…” she reeled off our names in correct order of precedence, “…to the start of what we hope will be a peaceful, enjoyable voyage back to Mother Earth. Let me first put your minds at rest.” With practised dexterity, she dropped a pellet into each phial, which ignited into an eye-blinding flare, before sagging into a blackened mess at the bottom of the flameproof holder. She gave each one an icy blast from a frosted canister, popped each scorched, deformed phial into a parch-bag using a pair of tongs and handed them, one by one, back to its owner.
While I was relieved that Philbycorp took DNA security so seriously, I was also very glad that we had gone through this procedure a day before Home Turf – the rather odd name of the liner we would be travelling on – arrived at Hawking. If they had to go through this whole pantomime for every passenger, it was a wonder the liner ever managed to undock.
Our very expensive tickets included our stay at the best hotel Hawking had to offer. After my last sortie on the devastated space station, I wasn’t expecting much. If they managed to find us a room with a secure locking system, containing a bed with unscorched blankets, I reckoned we’d be doing well. In the event, they managed a deal more than that. There were even new carpets on the floor, a detail I noticed far more keenly since adopting the Gaiast dress code.
What with one thing and another – and yeah, I’m aware this admission makes me sound really stupid – what I’d forgotten right up until we stood outside the door
and it hissed open, was that Wynn and I would be sharing a room and a bed, for the duration of the voyage to Earth.
It helped that Sarge strode into the room before us, poked around in the cupboards, looked under the bed, data-swept the room and the adjoining bathroom for spyspecs and erected a mobile privacy screen. By the time he’d completed his routine, I’d regained my composure and Jessica was able to take a break from wrestling my robe into submission. While Wynn sank into the nearest chair with obvious relief, muttering under his breath at all the unnecessary fuss Major Marchstep was making.
I ignored his whining.
“Right. This is an update of the roster I’ve drawn up for the next two days, Sister.” Sarge flipped open his com.
“You’ll need to factor in another issue, I’m afraid.” I didn’t bother looking at it, instead jerking my head in Wynn’s direction. “He’ll need serious meat-suite time before we embark.”
Sarge sighed noisily. “Of course. Which is why I’ve updated the security rota. Someone will need to accompany him.”
“Apologies, Sarge. I should’ve realised you’d have it covered. When’s he being admitted?”
“What? Who’s being admitted? You’re not—ˮ
Sarge didn’t even look in Wynn’s direction as he raised his voice, “In half an hour. It’ll be our own looking after him, of course. Lucky we still got several of our best med teams lodged here. No food or drink before. They reckon they’ll be loosing nanophages into his system and they can make you sicker’n a dog. He might be fine, but given the short timescale we’ve got, it’s not worth the risk.”
Wynn staggered to his feet, his robe thrashing around his knees. “You’ve no right—ˮ
Sarge took a breath, stepping right inside Wynn’s personal space, looking ferociously gleeful at the prospect of telling him what was what. Which we didn’t have time for.
I edged between them and put a hand on Wynn’s arm, talking fast, “Please… this leg – it won’t do.” I eased my grip, conscious that the arm beneath his robe was bunched with tension. “We could end up having to run for our lives. And you can’t. So we’d be left with the option of abandoning you, or risking ourselves to keep you safe.” I sensed his sudden wavering, wondering if he recalled the last time we were on Hawking together, when I’d refused to leave him injured and helpless, to face the Dregger gang intent on ripping us apart.
